The Golf War
by ghostyStarr
Summary: Arthur's busy. So, when he's not working, he likes to unwind at the local, prestigious country club and play some golf. Unfortunately, they've let in a bumbling American that is slowly, but surely, sucking the elegance out of the atmosphere like one of his ever-present milkshakes. AU USUK
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:**__** We all know who owns Hetalia, and it's not me, but I do own a really fat cat named Romano. :)  
**_

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_**[Chapter One]**_

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_June 1990_

Arthur is not a patient man.

Ask anyone that knew him and they would all agree. Arthur is polite, cool, and collected, but he is most certainly not patient. When he asks his assistant for a cup of tea, it's there the next time he glances up from his work. When he starts to reluctantly slow down at a red light, it changes to green immediately. When he calls someone, it's answered on the second ring. People learned quite quickly that it was a very dangerous idea to keep Arthur Kirkland waiting.

So, it was very, _very_ dangerous – catastrophic, even – that Arthur felt his patience running thin. And he only has one person to blame. "Damn it all!" he grinds out angrily. "That bloody idiot! He's lucky I don't press charges!"

"It was an accident, Arthur," Francis assures him, though it does nothing for Arthur's nerves. He hisses through his teeth as he lowers the ice pack from his nose, revealing a nasty red bump that would definitely be bruising later. Francis fails to hide his chuckles as he drives, occasionally glancing at Arthur's injury with glee.

"If you like it so much, frog, I'll give you one of your own," Arthur threatens, which quickly sends the other into a much more sombre state, muttering something about Arthur that he chooses not to listen to. Instead, he fumes over the last thirty minutes.

His day had started off poorly so he really shouldn't be surprised it ended as such. He woke up late, nicked his chin while shaving and showering at the same time, tripped over his cat as he tried to hop into his shoes and spilled coffee all over his expensive white couch, got stuck in traffic, and ended up speaking on the phone with a ritzy client with no intelligence whatsoever for over two hours. Arthur's stress-relief ball had been quite abused by lunchtime.

To clear his head after such a trying day, he decided to unwind by hitting the greens at the country club he belonged to. It was the best around, complete with servants and caddies and chauffeurs and a _bloody fantastic _bar, but very exclusive. Only a hundred members, plus their families and guests, held the privilege of being a member. The fee was daunting but Arthur enjoyed being able to roll into the lot to have his car parked for him, stroll into the open bar, share a few drinks with friends, and play some golf – and that was exactly what he did this particular day. He walked into the mercifully air-conditioned lounge and made a beeline for the alcohol. He was pleased to find that his usual drinking buddies were there.

There was Francis Bonnefoy, who Arthur didn't quite like but found it was humorous to antagonize whenever the opportunity presented itself (unfortunately the feeling was mutual). He was a French snobbish twit that drank wine with every meal he ate. Arthur honestly couldn't remember ever seeing anything but a wineglass in his hands.

Beside him was Gilbert Bielschmidt, who really ought to be kicked out. He himself wasn't a true member, but his brother, Ludwig, was so he tagged along as a guest whenever he could. Somehow, he managed to obtain a club jacket – probably stolen from an unsuspecting member – and he wore it constantly with a smug grin.

Lastly, there was Antonio Carriedo. He originally came as Francis's guest once for the annual Christmas party when he started crushing on some Italian waiter. He signed up for a membership the very same night. He was oblivious, but harmless, and often spoke in Spanish regardless of whether or not the person he was speaking to could. Beyond '_gracias' _and '_más_ _cerveza__' _Arthur was pretty much reliant on the 'smile-and-nod' tactic.

"Lookie here!" Gilbert grinned as Arthur slunk into a stool. "A bit early to be drinking, don't you think?"

"Idiot," Arthur huffed in greeting. "You lot have already had a few rounds if the glasses in front of you have anything to do with it. Besides, it's nearly four."

"Shouldn't you be at work?" Francis raised a suspicious eyebrow.

"Shouldn't _you?"_

"Day off!" Francis grinned. "Of course, I make my own schedule. But you, _mon ami, _are usually sulking in your office until Gilbert needs a ride home and then end up drunker than all of us."

"Remind me again why I speak with you idiots?"

Gilbert snorted. "Cuz I'm awesome!"

"You're so daft it's awe-worthy." Arthur thanked the bartender that placed a beer in front of him and happily took a deep sip. He checked his watch and sighed. "You know, I think I might sneak in a few holes." Gilbert started to laugh and Francis looked scandalized yet delighted by it. Arthur rolled his eyes. "I meant I might play golf for a bit."

"Of course, of course!" Gilbert chortled as drank down the rest of his own beer before slamming it on the table. "This place needs more chicks!"

"Yes, well, good luck with that," Arthur said and stood up. "I'm off."

"I'll come, too," Francis sighed. "It'll be amusing to watch you tear up the newly treated grass with your horrible swings."

"I am perfectly fine at playing golf, frog! It's you that's usually too drunk to even find the tee."

They continued bickering even as they pulled their equipment from their lockers and walked up to the greens. Francis harried Arthur over his stance as he prepared to swing. Arthur snapped at him to shut up. "You're ruining my focus on purpose, you cheating, cheese-loving bastard!" he growled when Francis let out an obvious sneeze, startling the Englishman, as soon as Arthur's club made contact with the golf ball, which sent the ball flying in the opposite direction he wanted it. He sent a murderous glance up at Francis, who just smirked right back with an innocent shrug.

He continued muttering a stream of obscenities as he trudged down to where his ball landed in the brush. As he sent a second harsh glare up at the chuckling Frenchman, he heard a loud laugh coming from the course behind them. He glanced over his shoulder and saw two young men playing. Or, rather, he saw a young man in glasses and a bright grin holding a golf club like a gun as he re-enacted some sort of war movie while the other man tried to ignore him embarrassedly. Their voices carried over to where Arthur, quite unsure what to make of them, stood.

_"Hey, Mattie! Watch this! I'm gonna send this ball right over that pond!"_

_"Al… I don't think that's a good idea. That's not even part of the course…"_

Arthur rolled his eyes. _When did they start letting in immature children?_

"Thinking about admitting defeat, rosbif?" Francis's taunt floated down.

Arthur gritted his teeth. "Not even in your disturbing dreams, frog!"

He lined up for another swing, but the noisy young man behind him was distracting. The laugh was harsh on his ears. His grip tightened on his club. "Easy, Arthur," he muttered to himself. "He's just a kid."

Taking a deep breath, he blocked out the irritating, grating voice and focused back on his game. Unfortunately, he was a little _too_ good at blocking things out, and too slowly did he realize that the young man was waving his arms and shouting something at him. "-_ore, fore, FORE!"_

Arthur threw his club to the ground and spun around, furious. "Will you kindly shut the bloody fu—" _SMACK!_

A glimpse of white was the only thing he saw before suddenly something hard smashed into his nose. He fell back with a gasp, hands immediately flying up to hold the injured area delicately. There was a clatter of noise and suddenly there was a pair of bespectacled clear blue eyes in front of his green ones. "Oh my God!" It was the young man Arthur had tried to snap at. "I am so, so, so, _so_ sorry! Are you okay? Can you speak? Blink if you can hear me! _Don't go into the light!"_

Arthur groaned, letting his head fall back against the neatly-cut grass. He touched his nose delicately and had to hold back a whimper. He wouldn't be surprised if it was broken. He glanced at his fingers and saw they were covered in blood. Yes, definitely broken.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" the young man was chanting, looking panicked. "Please don't die!" Somehow, Arthur managed another eye roll as he held his nose and an exasperated groan. "Should I get help? I should get help! MATTIE! _HELP!_"

"Alfred, for God's sake!" another man puffed as he strolled up. "He's not going to die! Just give him some space!"

"Oh, man, I really am sorry! Let me help you!"

Arthur smacked away the young man's – Alfred's – hand. He sat up, still clutching onto his nose protectively, and mustered up the darkest glare he could conjure. "Don't touch me!" he hissed, his voice sounding a little too nasally to be effectively threatening. "You stupid bloody Yank! You could have killed me!"

"I'm _sorry!"_ Alfred cried desperately. "Can I get you anything?"

"You can get the hell out of my way!" Arthur jeered, pushing the young man's persistent hands away once again.

"_Mon Dieu!" _Francis approached and helped Arthur, who for once allowed the action, up to his feet. He eyed the two young men suspiciously. "Which one of you hit him?"

Alfred gulped and shakily raised his hand. "Er – me. I'm super sorry!"

Francis just smiled. "Nice aim."

If Arthur wasn't in so much pain, he would have punched him.

"I'll take you to the medic," Alfred squeaked. "A-and I'll get you some ice cream or something!"

"I don't want your ruddy ice cream!" Arthur snapped. "And I'll be going to a real doctor not that glorified high-school nurse's office."

"But, I—!"

"You've done _quite _enough, I think! Francis! Take me to my car. I can barely tell which way is up or down." Ignoring the distraught look on Alfred's face, Arthur let Francis lead him off the greens and into his car. He didn't even once complain when Francis drove.

Which led to where he is now, sitting atop a wax-paper covered table and holding an icepack to his broken nose and glaring at Francis, who's still chuckling.

"You know, I think this is a good look for you!" Francis teases. "At least now people will be distracted from your monstrous eyebrows. Maybe you'll get a date."

Arthur's only response is an angry hand gesture.

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**_A/N: I actually have the displeasure of working at a country club. This is where my mind goes during work. No, I don't have any shame. Anyways, I can totally see Arthur belonging to one and being quite proud of it. And, this story takes place during the First Gulf War - geddit? Gulf war, golf war - ahhh, you get it! X3  
_**

**_Also: '__más cerveza__' is Spanish for 'more beer!' because of _course_ Arthur would know how to ask for a drink in every major language. :)  
_**


	2. Chapter 2

_**[Chapter Two]**_

* * *

Arthur sincerely hopes that he would never see that young American again. After going through the humiliating process of telling the doctor what had happened, and getting a bandage taped to the bridge of his badly bruised nose, he trudges back to work the next morning and tells different stories to anyone who asked, varying from a car accident to stopping an entire gang of muggers from robbing an elderly lady of her purse (he only really told that story to a group of giggling interns that were charmed by his accent).

Eventually, however, he has to show his face at the country club again. And so, Arthur goes that weekend and keeps his chin high and shoulders squared, sending a challenging glare at anyone who dared to taunt him. Luckily, most of the people there knew Arthur quite well – or knew _of_ him – and kept their respective distances.

All except for, of course, the one person Arthur wants to throttle through the matinee glass doors, elegance be damned. As soon as Arthur approaches the bar for a light drink, he hears a sharp cry. "Hey! Dude!" The sound of the voice is enough to shoot Arthur's mood to hell. His eye twitches as the young American slides into the stool beside his and smiles innocently. "Hey," he says again.

"Leave me alone," Arthur growls, hand tightening on his glass.

"Your nose looks a lot better."

"Piss off."

"No, seriously!" the man cries. "It's, er, not as… bloody."

"Well, who's fault was it that it was ruddy bloody in the first place?!"

The man cringes. He pushes his glasses up his nose before responding. "Yeah… I'm really, really sorry. I was just, ah, goofing around, you know, and my club slipped and next thing I knew you were on the ground. I feel bad about it. Honest."

Arthur sighs, resting his elbow on the bar and holding his head. "You caught me on a bad day. It was accidental, right?"

"Totally!"

He sighs again. "Then that's that. It's over with. No hard feelings." _Now shove off, _he adds mentally.

"Really?" The man's eyes light up. "Oh, thank God!" He lets out a loud laugh that almost makes Arthur's ears ring as he claps him on the shoulder. "I was seriously losing sleep over this." Arthur makes a noncommittal grunt, trying to convey that he no longer wanted to converse. But, the American seems not to notice. He jerks out his hand in front of Arthur's face. "My name is Alfred, by the way. Alfred F. Jones."

Sensing that there was no foreseeable way out of the situation, Arthur exhales and reluctantly shakes the man's hand. "Arthur Kirkland," he deadpans.

"Arthur," Alfred repeats, sounding much like a child correcting himself. "Any relation to King Arthur?" Arthur glares at him and Alfred immediately holds his hands up in defense. "Heh. Just a joke, dude."

"Yes, well," Arthur trails off, choosing to finish his drink instead of his sentence. He slams the empty glass against the bar and straightens up. "I'm sure you're quite busy, Mr. Jones, so I'll be off." Without waiting for a response, he turns his back and makes to walk away.

"Yea—no. Wait a second!" Alfred calls after and gets up and actually begins to _follow him._

Arthur stops, his foot tapping the floor as his patience is once again being tested. "What?"

"I, uh, I still feel bad…" Alfred says, rubbing the back of his neck with a bashful smile. "Could I – I dunno – buy you lunch? Or a drink, at least?" he adds when he sees Arthur's frown.

Arthur eyes the American critically. He's tall, a few inches more so than Arthur, with bright sandy hair and even brighter blue bespectacled eyes. His smile is blinding and honest, and Arthur can tell from the way he's holding himself that he's nervous despite his attempts to seem confident. He's actually quite handsome…

"No." Arthur ignores Alfred's surprised look and starts walking away.

"W-wait!" Alfred tries again. He blocks Arthur's exit and sends him a nervy smile. "Just one drink? That's all. It'll ease my conscience."

"I don't want a drink."

"Then lunch."

"Not hungry."

"Tomorrow."

"I've work."

"Dinner."

"I eat at my office."

"Coffee."

"Allergic."

Alfred blows a piece of hair out of his eyes. "Sheesh. You're tough."

Despite himself, he perks up a bit in pride. "You have no idea. Now, leave me alone. I've no interest in making friends with a loudmouth git that can't even properly hit a golf ball. If you'll excuse me, I think we've both wasted enough time here."

And this time, Alfred doesn't follow.

…

Just as the thought of Alfred finally and mercifully slips to the back of his mind, the annoyance decides he's not through with Arthur yet. A week later, Arthur is sitting outside by the pool, reading, and enjoying the peace and sunshine the early afternoon brought on his day off. He sipped at his tea, which is enough to make him momentarily forget about the constant pain in his nose.

He loses himself in the written fantasy world he's brought along until a horrifyingly startling noise snaps him back to an unwelcome reality. He jumps in his chair, nearly dropping his book in the chlorinated water, and glares in the direction of the noise.

He sees Alfred almost instantly.

_I might've known…_

He's laughing uncontrollably, wiping non-existent tears from underneath his glasses. Beside him is the man he had golfed with earlier – who would look nearly identical to the American if it wasn't for the apologetic look he sends other people when Alfred snorts into his milkshake and spews whipped cream everywhere.

Wait – _milkshake?_

Right in Alfred's hand is the offending drink with a familiar logo on the front.

_He brought… McDonald's… into a bloody country club with a four-star restaurant…_

Arthur's eye twitches as Alfred slurps up the milkshake – for God's sake it has _sprinkles on it – _loud enough to garner a decent amount of attention from the other members. He decides to ignore Alfred altogether and pray that he wouldn't be noticed.

"Arthur!"

Bollocks.

_Don't acknowledge him, _he tells himself firmly. _Pretend you don't notice him._

"Arthur!" _Slurp._ "Dude!"

A shadow blocks out the printed words and Arthur sighs, turning to face the American, whose smile is brighter than the brilliant sun. Arthur hates the sun. "Heya!" Alfred chirps before slurping up his milkshake once more, cheeks hollowing.

Arthur glares at him over his sunglasses. "What do you want?"

"Your nose is looking great!"

Arthur scowls and covers his nose with his hand. It's still horribly bruised and tender, though no longer swollen or crooked. The doctor that snapped it back into place made sure it was perfectly straight. He doesn't answer Alfred; he just returns to his story.

Alfred doesn't seem bothered by it. In fact, he just smiles and plops down on the empty chair beside him. He heaves a sigh. "It's such an awesome day. Why're you wasting it reading _that?"_

"_That _is William Shakespeare's _Hamlet,"_ Arthur huffs. "And I happen to enjoy it."

"So you really are a stuffy old man."

Arthur scoffs. "I am _not_ old!"

"Well, you act pretty old."

"Well, you act pretty childish. Honestly, I could hear you on the other side of the greens."

Alfred shrugs lazily. "I like talking to people."

Arthur's finger begins tapping his book. "Well, I like to read. Why don't you go talk to someone else?"

"Nah, I'm good here."

_That isn't what I meant._ His lips dip downwards and he tries fruitlessly to return to his book. But, Alfred won't let him. "So… have you had lunch?"

"No."

"Would you like to?"

Arthur pauses then sighs. "No."

Alfred smirks. "You'll have to say yes sometime."

"Cocky git," Arthur hisses before he can help it. Instead of being offended, Alfred laughs. It stuns Arthur. Usually people would just count him as a loss cause and move on. "What?"

"Nothing," Alfred says. "You're just funny."

Funny? Arthur is _funny? _He's been called short-tempered, short-sighted, and short just in general, but he's never been considered _funny_. As he's busy mulling over his newfound character development, Alfred's busy finishing his milkshake. The sound pulls Arthur from his thoughts and sets him right back to his grumpy self. "Do you mind?" he growls.

Alfred blinks, oblivious. His eyes rest on Arthur's book. "Oh! Nah, if you really wanna read you can go ahead."

"Not my book, git!" He points at the cup in Arthur's hand. "_That."_

_"That_ is a triple chocolate milkshake with whipped cream, chocolate chips, and a cherry from Mickey D's!" Arthur grimaces and Alfred laughs. He holds it out and gives Arthur a surprisingly shy smile. "You wanna try?"

Arthur can feel his cheeks heat up. "No, I don't want to taste your bleeding triple chocolate… whatever!"

Alfred smiles wider. "They come in vanilla, too."

"So?"

"So… maybe I can take you to get one sometime?"

"No."

Alfred pouts, but his eyes light up. "More of a Burger King guy, huh?"

"Ugh. Please leave."

"What? I can lounge here if I want! I'm a member, too!"

"Yes, that's what I'm upset about."

Alfred laughs, stretching out carelessly and grinning up at the sun. "Man, what an awesome day."

Arthur lips twitch into a frown. "It's rather miserable, if you ask me."

"Miserable? How? It's sunny and clear and warm and –"

"And this annoying git won't stop talking to me," he hisses.

"Ooh, that must be rough," Alfred teases. "What does he do?"

"He may or may not be trying to kill me."

Alfred laughs. "Oh, come on! How did you figure that?"

Arthur pretends to be in deep thought before snapping his fingers dramatically. "Well, first he knocked a golf ball right at my face, which could have easily rendered me brain damaged if my poor nose hadn't impeded a direct hit. But, now that he's seen I've survived, it seems he's trying to either bore me to death or annoy me so much that I'll want to drown myself in this pool." He gives a triumphant smirk at Alfred's astonished face. Oh, yes, he can be a real jerk when he wants to be. Arthur has _no_ patience for uncultured men like Alfred Jones.

Alfred pouts, wide blue eyes shining with emotion, and it's such a classic case of puppy-dog eyes that Arthur feels an uneasy pressure in his chest... something akin to guilt. _Why am I feeling guilty? _he wonders. _He's the one that caused all of this! _Yet, Alfred's pleading expression doesn't falter and Arthur has to give him points for being able to pull it off. He sighs and runs a hand through his shaggy hair. "A joke, Alfred," he mutters softly, half-hoping the American wouldn't hear him.

But, Alfred does. He lights up at once and suddenly his entire chair shakes with the force of his laughter. "You're freaking diabolical!" he howls. "I love it!"

Arthur blushes. "Shut it."

"Well, I don't think that that guy is trying to kill you," Alfred says, sudden and serious.

Arthur's taken aback at his level of closeness and leans away a little. "Wh-what?"

Alfred just smiles charmingly, suddenly looking much more mature and much more dangerous. "I think he just really wants to buy you a milkshake." At that, Alfred's milkshake makes a reappearance and he finishes it with one last slurp.

Arthur frowns. "No." He quickly buries his face back into his book, refusing to look up even when Alfred lets out a frustrated sigh and falls back onto the chair.

"Fine, fine," Alfred groans and climbs to his feet. Arthur risks a glance up, rather surprised that Alfred was actually going to give up. "No milkshakes tonight!" he agrees before sending a wink to Arthur. "But tomorrow's a new day! You'll be here, right? I'll see you then!"

Before Arthur can protest, Alfred speeds off, whistling a happy tune. "B-but!" he sputters but it's no use. The American, whether able to hear him or not, just doesn't listen to him. Muttering a strew of unintelligible words, Arthur tries to return to his book. A few quiet minutes pass before he realizes he's not really reading anything at all, and he growls, mussing up his bangs with one hand. He shuts his book, knowing that any attempts to concentrate on the content was a lost cause.

Leave it to Alfred to completely destroy a quiet afternoon.

...

The next day, Arthur doesn't go to the club.

...

He doesn't return until the next weekend, hoping that, by now, Alfred will have gotten the hint. He has no interest in making friends with the American. He just wanted to enjoy some peace and quiet.

Work was rough. An unfortunate accident involving their fax machine set them behind schedule, and Arthur failed to send a very important contract to a very important business partner on time. Finally, after shouting at the tech-geeks for a solid half-hour and nearly shoving his stress ball down his assistant's throat, he managed to send it two hours late. As an impatient person by nature, it was absolute torture. So, he risked a visit to the club. He could really go for a swim to blow off steam.

Luckily, it was getting late and all of the bratty children that fathers reluctantly brought along under their wives' instructions were gone. He's pleased to find that the indoor pool is completely empty for once. Sighing in content, he changes into his swim-trunks and puts on a pair of goggles. As much as it stings his pride, he's too wimpy to simply dive right in, so he slowly steps down the stairs, letting his body get used to the cold water. "You'd think they'd heat it," he mutters to no one.

Once he's in, he does as many laps as he can.

_Stupid young kid spilling coffee all over the bloody fax machine! _One lap.

_Daft tech-support guy only making it worse! _Another lap.

_Dumb intern girl asking if I got hit by a woman! _Add on a lap.

_Alfred Fucking Jones. _Two more laps.

By the time he has nothing more to complain about, he's panting and exhausted but feels remarkably lighter. He breaks from the water with a large gasp for air, floating on his back until his heart rate calms down.

A high-pitched whistle pierces the air. "Damn! You swim really fast!"

Arthur starts violently, splashing around and accidentally swallowing a large amount of water. He stands up and coughs.

"Oh, man! I'm so sorry! Are you all right?"

Arthur looks up and groans, fighting the urge to dunk himself back under the water. "D-dammit, J-Jones!" he chokes out. "I sh-should've known!"

Alfred smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"You don't mean for a lot of things to happen, I take it."

Alfred's face softens. "Yeah, you could say that," he says gently, giving Arthur a strange look.

Arthur glares. "What?"

"Nothing. Here, let me help you out." Alfred bends down and offers his hand, which Arthur eyes skeptically. Alfred scoffs. "I'm just gonna pull you out! Sheesh!"

"I'm not risking it," Arthur mutters, ignoring Alfred's pout as he lifts himself out of the water and brushes past him to grab a warm, fluffy towel. After he finishes drying of his face he calls back over to him, "You seem to be accident prone."

Alfred shrugs with a broad smile. "I don't know my own strength."

"Oh, is that it?" Arthur rolls his eyes. He glances at the clock on the wall. "What are you doing here? It's nearly eight."

"I could ask the same of you."

"I just got off work," he says, wondering why he was bothering talking at all. He wants nothing more than to go home, curl up with his cat, and watch old VHS tapes of Doctor Who. He notices Alfred is in a t-shirt and swim-trunks and raises an eyebrow. "Won't your girlfriend be upset with you for staying out late?"

Alfred makes a strangled-sounding snort. "Girls totally have cooties, dude."

Arthur tilts his head in confusion. Then, Alfred sends him a wink, and it clicks. "Oh. _Oh!_" Arthur blushes, not sure what to do with the new information.

Alfred, on the other hand, looks amused and confident. He smiles widely and quickly strips off his shirt, revealing a very impressive display of tanned, firm muscle. Arthur adverts his gaze immediately, not choosing to acknowledge the heat pooling in his face. "I'm gonna hit the hot tub. You wanna join?"

Arthur sputters out nervously, uncertain why he's even acting this way. He crosses his arms and tries to look even crosser. "No, I don't."

Alfred doesn't back down. He holds up a small cooler. "I have beer."

Arthur mentally slapped himself. "No, thank you."

Alfred sighed, but didn't look to disheartened. Instead, he gave a lazy shrug. "Tomorrow's a new day," he sang.

He left before Arthur could respond, though Arthur wasn't sure if he was physically able to. For a few moments, he stands there, dumbstruck, until he can think straight again. Then, he gathers his things and runs for his car, head spinning with questions. He's quite startled, but also a little relieved.

It seems Arthur isn't the only sheep hiding amongst the wolves.

* * *

**_A/N: Shamrock shakes will save the world one day. I must have had three while writing this. (My local McDonald's for some unknown, amazing reason has them year-round. (: )  
_**

**_Also: Arthur is SO more of a Burger King guy. X3  
_**


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